


CHECK THE LOCK

by Classpectanon



Series: Three Hundred And Sixty Five Ficlets About Homestuck [6]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Arson, Drugs Are There But Only Mentioned, F/M, Guns, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Italian Mafia, Marriage Proposal, Minor Character Death, References to Drugs, Scars, Tattoos, Yakuza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28586025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Classpectanon/pseuds/Classpectanon
Summary: Hood used to check for him when he'd pull up flexingNow he check under the hood before he start the engineCame out the stash house, something didn't smell rightHe on the ground trying to look up in the tail pipeMighty fall for a mighty manHad a manicure, now it's dirt and oil on his hands6/365
Relationships: Ms. Paint/Spades Slick
Series: Three Hundred And Sixty Five Ficlets About Homestuck [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085684
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	CHECK THE LOCK

Mr. Slick slammed the door shut behind him, brain rapidly flickering between anger and concern at high enough frequency to create a detectable tone, a high-pitched whine between his ears that modulated itself into a low, steady thrum. He thumbed for his gun, that steady, familiar shape in his holster, kicking up the edge of his jacket along with it. Still there, because of course it was. An old friend, never ready to leave him.

Outside the condominium window, the fresh knife chops of helicopter blades cut through air like sashimi, slicing it into neat, even portions, _whupwhupwhupwhupwhup_. "Babe." He said, rather than called, his dress shoes clacking on freshly cleaned tile. He shuffled around, yanking over curtains to block line of sight, praying silently for no red dots, please no red dots tonight. "Babe. C'mon, where y'at?"

"Yes, dear?" she answered from the bedroom - no, wrong echo, the bathroom. The smell of cigar smoke, a tidy indulgence, washed comfortably over the inside of the condo like a blanket, but she was yet to be visible - at least he knew where to find her.

"Babe, I may have screwed the pooch. Toots, I may have fucked the dog. Sweetheart, the canine is-"

"I get it, Spades. Please, the point?"

Inside, some leftover instinct of him, the need to have his authority to go perfectly unchallenged by his boys, flared up. He inhaled through his nose, remembered his anger management techniques, and lowered his shoulders. Do not get angry at Paint. Do not get angry at Paint. Do not get angry at Paint. "We got stung. Some shithead-" He waved his pistol around angrily, loudly gesticulating with his hands, finger off the trigger, "some shithead let himself get pinned by the pigs. Came in with a wire. Deal's gone sour, then some of those fucking new kids, they swing around and catch the stragglers."

"Catch or _catch_?"

" _Catch_. Deuce, Droog, Boxcars." He tried to sound a little broken up about it. It was harder than you would imagine, not that there wasn't respect amongst made men, but there was no time to worry about the dead. Or the arrested. "If theyse haven't caught lead and we're not biting any bullets in the next fifteen minutes then I guess we'll have to start threatening some politicians."

"They're big boys, either they handle themselves or they don't." She replied. In between hand-waves and gestures, he grabbed bills, drugs, bullets, anything he could find, stuffing it into pockets and spare pockets and jacket pockets and pants pockets and leaving the rest on the dining room table. Dumping it out of baggies, out of dime bags, worthless to him now. Don't take anything you can't carry. Grab that second pistol. Stuff the third one down your pants - unload it first. Light a match, soak some paper towels in oil, everything else goes up, starting with the drugs.

Ms. Paint wandered her way out of the bathroom, and for a moment, everything just paused for Mr. Slick. "Why are you burning everything?" She asked, matter-of-factly, but he was too dumbfounded by her very existence to respond. Intricate art, years of a tattoo artist's life stenciled into every inch of her upper body, sarashi tied around her upper body to prevent indecency. She looked far less furious than he assumed she'd be. "Spades. I worked so hard - we both worked so hard to leave. To strike it out on our own. Why are you burning everything? Are we starting over again?"

He snapped his attention away from her. "I know a guy. Short, bald little fucker. He can - he can launder our cards again. Our passports. Let's move to Jamaica or some shit. Or Puerto Rico. Somewhere sunny where I don'ts gotta worry about this shit no more."

She grabbed her suit jacket from the closet, snatching a shotgun from an alcove in the wall, buttoning it up. Trousers on, too, plenty of pockets in those. Smart lady. "I'll follow you 'til I die but... We're gonna ruin it. We're ruining our lives, Spades. Spades, how many times have we done this?"

"You?" He flicked a lit match onto the couch. "What, let's see, once from there, another from there, then to here... Three times."

"Four."

"Four times. Me? Oh I'm not even bothering to count."

She laughs, and her eyes glint a little bit, the smile lines on her face creasing into wrinkles. She grabs a hairband and ties it back, and then finds a switchblade and stuffs it into her pocket. Loads up her shotgun, click click click (click click...). Grabs a pistol. She wanders back into the bathroom and the cigar smoke comes out with her, and she takes a long, long, bitter taste of it. "Get the jewelry." He says, pulling one last cigarette out from his stash, lighting it up, taking a single drag, and flicking it onto the carpet.

She comes out with necklaces, bracelets, anklets, so much metal, a small amount of it on her, a larger amount in her pockets, an even larger amount stuffed in a purse that she tossed to him. He opened it up and checked. So many diamonds, so little time. "Good, that'll last us." He says, slinging it over his shoulder. He stuffs some ammunition down his pants. "One last piece of jewelry."

"Huh? No, I definitely got it all. Let's peace." She says, walking to the front door. Already, laughing, screaming, bullets behind the door. She grabs a table, pulls it over, flips it for some cover.

"One last piece, Paint." He says, tossing her a small, velvet case. She cracks it open, gasps just a little, cute little gasp under her breath, and unceremoniously stuffs it in her pocket, snapping it back shut.

"If we make it out of this, I do."

"If?" Mr. Slick asked incredulously.

Someone kicked the door in.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. All views, kudos, comments, and bookmarks are appreciated.  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/classpectanon)


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